


I Put Them With My Own

by Rebness



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Christmas, Domestic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 13:29:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13124715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness
Summary: If there's one thing Louis craves at Christmas, it's routine and family. And Armand knows that's the best gift he can give.





	I Put Them With My Own

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for the VCsecretgifts 2017 exchange. 
> 
> For 13bels, who wanted domestic Louis/Armand at Christmas.

_We'll go somewhere faraway, to a special place, on a tropical island. A real one. Just come with me. I know we connected somehow, you know? I know we did. And you need me. And I need to be needed so bad. Just come with me. You know we can be together for real._ \- _The Zero Theorem,_ Terry Gilliam

  
              ~  


 

There was often a soundtrack to Louis waking up at Trinity Gate, and tonight – Christmas night – was no different. Sybelle - younger than him by a great deal, wickedly stronger, he supposed - must already be at the piano; a melancholy, slow version of Sakamoto’s _Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence_ (Armand’s warped humour; he would bet on it) echoed through the rooms of the palatial mansion.

He washed and dressed quickly, combing out his hair so it was full and loose, less tousled, and curling slightly at the ends, framing his face. His clothes were already laid out on the little chair by his bed (‘It’s _one night_ , so I demand you indulge me in this,’ Armand had said.) Then, because the threat of imagined consequences did not work when dealing with the most stubborn of the coven as opposed to a harassed and tired mortal journalist, he had tried a different tack: ‘ _And it will make Benji and Sybelle happy_.’)

Louis had groaned at the thought of stiff lace and expensive shirts which would be starched and uncomfortable, but in the end he had been permitted a warm and soft cable-knit sweater direct from Denmark -- hygge was _so_ in, Benji had said -- and a pair of slacks.  He dipped his long fingers into the small porcelain bowl where he kept his few pieces of jewellery, and withdrew an elegant rose gold ring fitted with a modestly-sized rectangular topaz stone. It slipped into place on the smallest finger of his right hand, and he took a moment to admire the play of light and depth in the warm brown stone, the colour of hard liquor. He gave a wry smile.

He slowly descended the great staircase, breathing in the warm scent of pine and spruce, admiring the bannister decked out in garlands and mistletoe. He made his way to the music room, where his Trinity Gate family were gathered.

He paused at the door, taking in the sight before him; Sybelle’s festive red-glittered nails dancing nimbly across the piano keys, Benji lounging on a chair nearby, fiddling with some new contraption Armand must have gifted him, and Armand himself, resplendent in a soft grey cashmere sweater and jeans. The clothes had been artfully chosen; somewhat nondescript, and serving to accentuate the striking red of his hair, the seductive brown eyes. A thin gold chain snaked around his pale collarbone, Kintsukuroi scored through erotic flesh.

Louis caught his breath. He knew Armand was perfectly well aware that he was standing there - they all were - but he was an aesthete, and he knew they would indulge him in taking in the tableau before becoming of it.

The great French windows in the music room were thrown open, but the incessant buzz of the city below was not unpleasant for once - it was life, though the snow laying outside muffled the traffic and rendered the sounds of New York altered and pleasant; a rush of gratitude flooded through him with such force that he was momentarily frozen in place.

He roused himself presently, and softly walked across the creaking old floorboards and the hideously expensive wool rug to the chair where Armand sat, his face unguarded and relaxed. (That relaxed face, Louis knew, was also usually a thing of artifice).

‘And yet…?’ murmured Armand.

‘And yet, I’ve told you not to do that,’ he said crossly.

‘Hmm,’ said Armand. He cocked his head and gazed at Sybelle.

She concentrated on the dip and weave of her fingers with unnerving focus, her white hands fluid and elegant,  her hair a flowing shower of gold as she swayed in deep concentration.  

Armand watched her for a long moment. ‘A parcel came for you during the day,’ he said flatly. ‘The concierge has it.’

Louis turned to him with an amused smile. ‘I thought maybe he had forgotten this year.’

‘No,’ said Armand, shaking his head, his eyes still fixed on Sybelle. ‘Nobody forgets you.’

Louis took his hand. ‘Nor you.’

Armand took note of the ring, and gave him a tolerant look. ‘You’re very kind.’ He accepted the conciliatory kiss from his lover, watching as he got up again and walked over to the window, holding his wrist behind his back as if he were at the Paris Salon and taking in some trite domestic painting.

‘It’s really snowing quite heavily,’ said Louis.

‘Look at this, Louis!’ said Benji, leaping over the couch to stand beside him. He held some heavy metal contraption in his hands. ‘I didn’t even _know_ \-- do you have any idea how hard it is to get the _Odyssey_ mixer?  I mean, I _tried_ like everywhere as soon as it came out, but they said it was only available to industry critics for beta testing, and even then there was a waitlist of like six months!;

Louis nodded sagely. ‘Yes, it’s a very -- euh… yes, an impressive gadget.’ He coughed politely, fingering one of the many identical dials. ‘What does it do?’

‘Are you kidding me? So much! But the thing that’s best is the multi-channels of audio effects. No more getting tripped up on layered tracks!’ laughed Benji, shaking his head. ‘‘I’ll get it set up tonight, just let me figure it out…’ He bit his lip, examining the equipment. ‘First, I need to connect it up to my current soundsystem, so that’s going to take a few hours…but I’ll let you know when it’s done, and you can come listen. You’ll _hear_ the difference right away.’’

‘Yes, that would be very nice,’ said Louis distractedly. ‘I would like that very much…’

But his voice had drifted along with his gaze, and he stood watching the softly falling snow outside the windows, still and remote and dreamy.

Benji shrugged. ‘Yeah, later,’ he said, as he scooped up a dangling wire, and ran his hand reverently over his gift. There was no malice in his dismissal of Louis; he was used to losing his attention to the strangest things.

Armand had watched the exchange with lazy interest, and now he turned his attention to Louis, his eyes roving over the tousled mass of black hair, then to his shoulders, and down to where his pale hands gripped the windowsill tightly.

He roused himself. ‘Louis,’ he said, and then, in a coaxing manner: ‘Louis, why don’t we go for a walk?’

___________________________________________________________________________

They donned thick woollen coats and scarves, Louis and Armand wearing gloves, Sybelle with a slouchy knitted hat, and Benji resolutely refusing gloves and hat. The Christmas Walk had become something of a tradition of the last nine years, whereupon they greedily took in the lights and decorations; it was after all a city which did not sleep, and one where a vampire might still feel part of the festivities.

A leisurely stroll through Manhattan took them down Madison Avenue, admiring the holiday displays and haute couture fashion in the store windows of Emilio Pucci, Lanvin, Prada, Cartier, and Dolce & Gabbana. A fitted jacket in a prep-school style caught Louis’ eye, though he immediately refused Armand’s offer to buy it for him. Sybelle gleefully pointed out an onyx mannequin in an ice-skater’s graceful pose and attempted to assume the same position, losing her balance and falling on her knees into the snow. Before Benji could offer her a hand, she had shot across the street to admire a synthetic coat swirled in the orange, pink, and green of sherbert ice cream; Armand made a mental note to pick it up for her another time.

Benji led them as they meandered around Central Park among the few people milling about, an elderly couple on the bridge looking out onto the frozen lake, a mad runner in neon colors making plumes of steamed breath as he jogged the salted run around the Jackie Kennedy Onassis reservoir.

A snowman had lost his nose, and Sybelle found him a short, sturdy branch to replace it; she and Benji made two angels from snow to guard him from further nose-theft. Louis watched them, charmed. He unconsciously looped his arm through the crook of Armand’s elbow, and Armand regarded his family with a sated peacefulness.

The night wore on, and they meandered from Central Park, back into the city proper. They passed by a nondescript corporate building; its column pinned it to the sidewalk like great black blades, festooned in thick ropes of Christmas lights; it loaned the building a holy air it did not deserve. Louis watched as Armand’s solemn gaze drifted over the lights and then the ugly metal columns, no doubt finding some truth in the dichotomy there.

Armand glanced at Louis, and opened his mouth to say something.

‘Again,’ said Louis. ‘I’ve told you to stop doing that.’

There was no heat to his words, however, and Armand pressed close alongside him, his fingers tightening around Louis’s arm when his lover pulled him closer.

They chatted idly, making observations about the people and things around them, the city a dreamy haze before them. Benji walked ahead with Sybelle, idly running his hand along a low ledge as he passed, collecting snow and then tossing to the pavement. Then, considering, he grabbed up a load more snow and balled it into his ungloved hands, which did not burn with cold. A mischievous grin broke out across his face. He turned to Armand, hand pulled back, only to quail when he saw the cold gaze affixed on him. He dropped the snowball to the pavement and broke out into a jog to catch up with Sybelle.

‘A truly inveterate cliche,’ said Louis, wiping at his nose with one gloved hand. ‘Snow at Christmas.’

‘You complained of this in Germany,’ said Armand. ‘As if the weather cares for postmodernism.’

‘Did I?’ he laughed, delighted.  

‘Yes. Winter of 1902. We were in Strasbourg.’

‘Strasbourg is _French_.’

‘Not at the time,’ he said, with a wry smile. ‘I forgive you not noticing. You were -- distracted.’

Louis cast him a quick glance, but Armand was already speaking again. ‘Oh, that’s perfect,’ purred Armand, nudging him in the ribs. ‘Yes, I think next year I’ll buy some of those…’

He followed his companion’s gaze across the street, where great giant illuminous candy canes decorated another office building. ‘ _Mon Dieu_ ,’ he breathed. ‘And I shall move out the very next night.’

Armand pressed his arm with a laugh, and they walked on.

The night grew older, and after some time they agreed to return to Trinity Gate. Benji had a broadcast he wanted to try out with the new equipment Armand had bought him, and he had been rather indelicately pressing for a return to the mansion for a good half an hour.

‘But you’re not tempted by the Radio City Christmas Spectacular?’ teased Armand with a crafty grin. ‘I could still get us tickets.’

‘Oh, no,’ groaned Benji. ‘No, let’s not do that!’

And with that, he took Sybelle’s hand and marched off quickly, back in the direction of Trinity Gate.

Armand and Louis followed at a slower, more human pace behind. Their companions would sequester themselves away for the rest of the night, as was their habit, and so the remainder was theirs alone.  

They did not speak until they were home, the only sound between them the pleasant crunch of their footsteps on the fallen snow. Armand stayed back to talk to the night watchman, and watched as Louis mounted the grand staircase, his white hand flashing briefly on the bannister, then unwinding the scarf from about his slim neck dreamily.

He returned his attention to his employee. ‘You can lock up and retire to your quarters now,’ he said, affecting his best Manhattan rich boy accent as he always did when ordering mortals about. ‘I’ll ensure there’s a bonus in your paycheck.’

‘Thanks, Sir,’ he said. He shouldered his coat and stood up. ‘Oh, wait. I almost forgot the package.’ He bent down and retrieved it from beneath the desk, handing it to Armand.

‘Thanks. So… do you have any plans tonight?’ asked Armand, gazing up at the staircase once more.

The guard shrugged and pulled his gloves on. ‘Not really, sir. A coupla drinks, maybe. It’s just another day to me now the kids have left. One year kinda bleeds into the same… don’t ya think?’

Armand regarded him steadily. ‘How strange of you to say that, when time goes so quickly.’ He shrugged off his coat and headed towards the staircase, humming a tune; sometimes it did not suit him to listen to another’s thoughts.

  


_________________________________________________________________________________________

 

He found Louis sitting in the panelled drawing room, as expected. The little fireplace was lit; Louis stood stoking it gently with a poker. The firelight cast a gentle glow, softening the severe planes of Louis’s face. A clock ticked chimed the hour in the hall;, Armand marked it with a small sigh.

He slid his thumb along the smooth cardboard package he held, and across Lestat’s obnoxiously large cursive handwriting. A brief, savage urge to cast the gift into the flames shook him almost as quickly as it disappeared.He shut the the polished mahogany door behind him and joined Louis on the couch. He handed him the parcel.

Louis took the package and eyed it critically. ‘To M. Alain d’Essoir, from M. Leon Corr.’ He groaned heartily, delighted with Armand’s grimace. ‘I swear they get worse.’ He ran his fingers over the return address. ‘Clermont-Ferrand. He must still be in France.’

He carefully opened the package, as if defusing an explosive. He felt around cautiously and then withdrew the gift, flipping it over in his hands. ‘A DVD,’ he announced.

‘A blu-ray,’ corrected Armand. He took it from Louis and read the back of the case. ‘“ _Jean Cocteau’s sublime adaptation of Mme. Leprince de Beaumont’s fairytale masterpiece_ …”’ He handed it back to Louis. ‘The opera and essay features will keep you busy for weeks.’

Louis smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He opened up the package further. ‘No card this time.’

‘Well,’ said Armand, with a lazy shrug. ‘The choice of gift from The Beast says enough.’

Colour rose to Louis’s face. ‘Yes, perhaps.’

Armand sat back, a wry expression on his face. ‘He can never quite let you…’ he began.

‘I don’t think I want him to,’ said Louis, rubbing at his wrist thoughtfully. ‘That’s the worst of it.’ He fixed Armand with a bright smile, and his dramatic features were softened and unguarded. ‘You said you had a film queued?’

‘Yes – the new Gilliam one.  I downloaded it.’

Louis frowned. ‘I’m not sure I want to watch a camcorder recording, with people getting up and--’

Armand mock scowled. ‘You know me better than that.’’ He picked up a remote from the small table at the side of the chair and pointed it at the flat screen television on the wall. He turned back to Louis.  ‘You know I’m more _resourceful_ than that. Don’t worry.

He ran a hand through his hair, laughing a little. ‘True, you are.’

‘You don’t wish -- we could watch that film,’ said Armand, gesturing to the gift at Louis’s side.

‘Non, non,’ he retorted, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Another time, perhaps.’ He patted the seat next to him. ‘Come, let’s get comfortable.’

Armand pulled the chenille throw from the back of the chair and shifted closer to Louis before pulling it over the both of them. His head lay pillowed on his lover’s shoulder, his neck a tender and exposed thing. He was rewarded with a chaste kiss, and he smiled.

They watched the film in silence, both giving themselves over utterly, and expecting the same from the film. And it seemed natural, and right, that when it reached its melancholy and strange end, that Armand allowed his hand to find its way inside Louis’s sweater, across his smooth chest, along his clavicle, and lightly grasp his shoulder. He rested it there as he came in closer for a soft kiss.

Louis closed his eyes and fell into the embrace readily, the script as immediately familiar and comforting as the cloying Christmas television movies Benji favoured, where he was kissed and coveted and loved, and there were no complications. He returned the affection with equal fervour. They kissed in silence for several minutes, and then Armand pulled away, and was remote and feline again, running his tongue over his lips in satiation.

If this had been Lestat, it would have escalated with breathtaking speed, passion neither of them could contain, and that thrilling awful undertone of constant misplaced words and actions which always ended in blood shed and taken.

But this wasn’t Lestat; it was his old friend, his hypnotic and vital Armand.

The dying fire in the hearth crackled defiantly. They watched it and clasped each other closer, aligned.

Outside, the snow lay drifted and silent.


End file.
